


A Night in Paris

by stargate-ruiner (purpleplanet)



Series: Hauntings [2]
Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: (and making out), (but really only a little. barely any.), Arguing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Making Up, Owen speaks French, Period-Typical Homophobia, apologies in advance for my likely incorrect french lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 23:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19451491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpleplanet/pseuds/stargate-ruiner
Summary: “You know, I seem to remember a night in, well, I believe it was Paris.”In Chapter 3 of my story "The Ghost of You (It Keeps Me Awake)", Owen recounts an anecdote about a night he and Curt spent in Paris.If you were wondering what really happened that night, here's the full story.(Part of the universe of "The Ghost of You" but can be read separately as it's own piece)





	A Night in Paris

The agencies sent a car, which was nice of them, all things considered. 

“Eighteen!”

Owen had one of Curt’s arms slung across his shoulders to help him limp out of the building. Curt’s other arm was around his abdomen, so that he could keep his hand pressed to the wound and apply pressure, in a desperate and unfruitful attempt to stop, or even slow, the bleeding.

“They said there would be eighteen!”

Owen had been ranting and raving like this since the moment the two agents could speak freely, which is to say, since everyone in the building was dead except themselves.

“But there were _twenty!_ ”

Curt was pale in the face. He absolutely couldn’t stand the sight of his own blood, and the rate at which he was losing it certainly didn’t help things. He felt unbelievably lightheaded, and listening to Owen go on so angrily made his already spinning head feel even more out of touch with the present.

“That’s _two_ more than reported.”

Another step sent a shock of pain straight up to Curt’s wound and he hissed in reaction to it. He wished he could just walk it off, it’s not like he had never been stabbed before.

“One at the-”

Owen was deeply and truly furious and Curt could practically feel the energy of it radiating off of him. It took a lot to rile Owen up like this. He was always so calm and collected on missions. He moved methodically and meticulously. He went in with a plan, and then he executed it. Step by step as if following a script. It took a lot to get Owen to go completely off-book. It took a lot to make Owen snap.

“-entrance-”

Curt could see, even from the vantage point of struggling to walk with his head hanging weakly, that Owen still had a little red around his eyes. Owen would never, not ever, admit that he cried on a mission. 

But the visual of Curt, with wide terrified eyes, a bright red stain in his shirt from where he was stabbed, one arm roughly bent and held behind his back, and the barrel of gun directly against his temple was utterly shattering.

His voice audibly cracked when he’d said “Ne le tue pas.” (“Don’t kill him.”)

“Rendez-nous ce que vous avez pris et je vais envisager de ne pas lui tirer dessus.” (“Return to us what you’ve taken and I will _consider_ not firing.”)

 _“Je t’implore ” (“I beg you.”)_ Owen had forcibly choked the plea out of his aching throat.

“Owen…” Curt had started, before being cut off by the guard gruffly barking “Tais-Toi!” (“Shut up!”) and pushing his arm further, causing Curt to wince and silence himself.

The action ignited an anger within Owen, turning his desperation into boldness. "Laisse le partir." (“Let him go.”) Owen had commanded, voice deadly but still wavering slightly.

The guard stared him down.

"Vous faites une erreur." (“You are making a mistake.”) Curt could see Owen’s expression darken, watched him cross the line between fear and rage. For just a second, he felt almost bad for the man who held him at gunpoint. 

"Quoi?" (“What?”) the guard asked defiantly, "Vas-tu vraiment laisser ton partenaire mourir?" (“Are you actually going to let your partner die?”)

He tapped the gun against Curt’s forehead to emphasize his point, making Curt shudder in his grasp involuntarily. He spoke again, addressing Curt directly."Entendez-vous cela, Américain? Il ne se soucie pas de vous." (“Do you hear that, American? He does not care about you.”)

Owen made eye contact with Curt for just a second. Although he only got a flash of it, Curt could tell there was a storm brewing in his eyes.

“Vous avez tort.” (“You’re wrong.”) Owen’s gaze drifted upwards chillingly to stare at the guard. “Je suis amoureuse de lui” (“I am in love with him.”)

Curt would be the first to admit that he spoke very little French. Quite a lot of this exchange had utterly lost on him, which only added to his fear. But the word for love is recognizable in any language, and he saw the danger in Owen’s expression as he’d said it.

And then Curt knew. That was the final nail in the coffin. With no room for uncertainty, the man standing behind him was about to die.

By the time the guard opened his mouth to speak, Owen had already pulled the trigger.

“-and one in the-”

He shot the guard who was holding Curt. 

In the head. 

It was one fluid and lightning fast motion. Less than a second to aim and fire. A risky gambit, but a necessary one.

Owen had always had a talent for invoking the element of surprise. And luckily, he also had impeccable aim.

The guard collapsed backwards as Curt stumbled forwards, nearly falling himself before Owen caught him. There was a distinct gentleness to how Owen held Curt, arms outstretched, just barely keeping him upright, letting him lean his weight onto his chest. With one hand he gingerly lifted Curt’s chin to look at him face to face. Curt’s eyes lazily dragged upwards to meet Owen’s. 

“...saved me.” he mumbled, coming down off the panic and adrenaline.

“Can you walk?”

“Yeah.” Curt replied immediately before backtracking. “Kind of.” he shrugged, “It’s just a stab wound, that’s all.”

“Oh, that’s all?” Owen snapped sarcastically. He sighed deeply. “This wouldn’t have happened if we’d known to anticipate --” he was interrupted by Curt’s head lolling back down against his shoulder. 

“Alright.” he briefly pet the back of Curt’s head to provide some comfort. Then he hefted Curt over to the side so that he could support his weight. “We’re getting out of here.”

As Owen stalked out of the building, carrying Curt with him, Curt kept his head hanging lowly down.

From his perspective, what happened next was occasionally the sounds of footsteps approaching, Owen’s gun firing, a loud thud against the floor, and Owen counting down under his breath.

He never hesitated before firing, and never shot to wound, only to kill. None of the remaining guards got close enough to even aim their own weapons.

When Curt heard the last body dropping and Owen muttered “zero.”, that’s when Owen started going off. 

Raging about the incorrect information they’d received during their briefings, that under-reported the number of guards. He was especially upset that they hadn’t been told about the additional guard in the --

“-basement!”

Another flare of pain produced a groan from Curt, making Owen look down at him with concern. 

“How are you holding up, love?”

“Car’s here.” Curt said, hoping to dodge the question. 

_He was not holding up well._

Owen nodded, although he noticed how Curt avoided answering. They reached the car and Owen took hold of the door handle to the backseat. 

The front window rolled down. Inside, the driver looked at Owen. He was a scrawny type with shaggy dirty blonde hair and innumerable freckles. Definitely young and definitely nervous. He looked at Owen with expectant eyes. “Sir?” he said, as if anticipating a reply. Owen noted his American accent.

Owen looked back blankly, before he caught on to what was being asked of him. He huffed.

“I’m not doing your goddamn idiotic code. My name is Agent Owen Carvour. If you have intentions of killing me, just get it over with.”

The driver hesitated, before stammering, “Cynthia says it’s against protocol to--”

Owen was already opening the door. 

He helped Curt in, angling the two of them, and shifting their positions so that Curt could fully lean on him, practically in his lap.

The driver looked back at them briefly. 

“Try not to get blood on the seats.”

Owen glared. “I’ll get blood wherever the hell I want.”

Curt nuzzled into his side, and placed a hand on Owen’s leg as a placating gesture. “You’re supposed to do the code…” he mumbled. “It’s an agency requirement.”

“Well to put it bluntly, Mega, at the moment I don’t really have much interest in doing _anything_ for the agency.” He placed his hand on top of Curt’s. Upon the touch, Curt turned his own hand over and curled his fingers so that their hands were laced together.

Owen’s anger was briefly quelled, as a soft smile spread across his face at the affection. The warmth in his expression soon froze over, however, as he remembered his current circumstances. He shot a look up into the rear-view mirror, making eye-contact with the driver, who visibly shivered. Whether or not he’d considered saying anything before, he was silenced now.

“You need to relax.” Curt’s eyes fluttered for a moment, and Owen could hear how woozy he sounded from the blood loss. “We made it out unscathed.”

Owen frowned. “We’re not unscathed. You were stabbed.”

“A _little_ scathed.” Curt admitted, with a light laugh that was cut off by him wincing in pain.

It was an expression that would have amused Owen any other time, but he was too caught up in his worry and frustration to laugh.

“Speaking of,” Owen lifted his head to address the driver, “as far as local hospitals go--”

“My orders are to take you directly to your hotel, sir.” he interrupted.

Owen looked almost appalled. “Is that some sort of joke? My partner is injured. Professional medical attention should be standard.”

To Owen’s dismay, the driver didn’t budge. “The mission schedule is set in stone. There’s no time allotted for admittance for medical care, if it’s not absolutely necessary.” 

“Not absolutely necessary? He’s--”

The driver cut him off. “Have you been given insufficient supplies?”

Owen sputtered. “Well, no, but--”

“Does MI6 training somehow completely ignore first aid?”

“You know damn well it doesn’t.” he snapped.

“Then it sounds like you have the means to treat this wound yourself.”

Owen seethed. He couldn’t believe the audacity of the driver to speak to him in such a tone, especially when he was clearly at a lower rank of authority. His voice still squeaked, for God’s sake. He was young. All too quickly, Owen realized he was probably _too young. Good God, he couldn’t be older than college age, if that._

Owen’s mind was racing. _They wouldn’t send a child. They wouldn’t. Surely. Would they? No, of course not, but--_

“How old are you, lad?” Owen asked with both coldness and concern congealing in his tone.

“I’m not permitted to disclose that information.” the driver’s voice was almost monotone, as if he’d rehearsed the line. 

Owen looked slightly taken aback at the response. “I have clearance.” he pressed. “How old are you?”

“I’m not _going_ to disclose that information.” he reiterated. 

Owen narrowed his eyes. His voice was like ice as he made his challenge. “I don’t think you’re old enough to drink.”

The driver straightened his posture slightly. “I am here, sir.”

Owen nodded slowly, nearly willing to accept that he’d misjudged, before snapping his head up suddenly. “You had to specify!” Genuine horror seeped into his tone. “The drinking age is _sixteen_ in France and you had to specify! Oh my _God, how old are you?!”_

“Owen!” Curt gave his hand a squeeze. “Would you lay off the kid? It’s not his fault this happened.”

Owen huffed, looking back down at his partner. “I’m just concerned, that’s all. He’s young.”

“You were young when you first joined the business.” Curt countered. “Are you actually worried about him or are you just worried that soon enough these kids will be the ones running the show?”

“Curt--”

“I know you’re concerned, but don’t take it out on him. Besides, if it’s anyone’s fault it’s mine.” He gave a sympathetic look.

Owen almost laughed at the absurdity of that statement. “It’s _not_ your fault, Curt.”

“I should have been more careful. I should have been more focused. That’s on me.”

“As far as I could tell, you were perfectly focused. The problem is that there were more guards--”

“Oh, give it a rest!”

“--than we were told about! Eighteen reported. Twenty in the building.”

“They didn’t know, Owen.” Curt said seriously.

Owen looked down at him darkly. “It’s their job to know.”

Curt had been hoping to enjoy their time in Paris. They’d had just a day to discuss it. Constant mission schedules overlapping like spiderwebs made things difficult, but there was one day they both had off, and were both in the US, the day right before they left for this mission, and Owen had spent most of it in Curt’s apartment. 

“Paris!” Curt sounded so excited. “We really got lucky with the assignments this time, huh?”

Owen didn’t look up from the tea he was stirring. “How so?”

Curt made a noise of annoyance at the question. “The city of _love_ , Owen! It’ll be so romantic.”

“It’s not as if they’re giving us any time to enjoy it.” Owen retorted. “Have you seen the schedule we’re supposedly operating on? It’s tight. It’s too tight if you ask me, but of course, none of them did. Why should they care? They’re not ones out in field risking their lives and--”

“Do you have to be such a downer?” Curt asked, cutting him off. “So we won’t have time off the job.” he shrugged. “We’ll still have time _together._ ”

Owen hesitated. “I suppose.”

“And in _Paris!_ I’ve always wanted to go to Paris.” Curt sighed dreamily. “You speak a little French don’t you?

True to form, Owen didn't refuse the opportunity to show off. “Oui, je parle couramment le français.” 

Curt leaned across the table with a sly smile playing at his lips. “Do you know anything flirty in French?”

Owen gave a sigh which turned into a breathy laugh at the end. “Tu as un cœur d’artichaut, mon cher.”

Curt giggled. “I’ll admit, I don’t know what you just said. But it sounded very sweet.”

“The only romantic French I know is a french kiss.” he continued. 

“Well, here’s a quick lesson: In their language that’s ‘un baiser amoureux', a lover’s kiss.” Owen supplied. 

“Well there you go!” Curt said. “Even if we don’t have time for sight-seeing, we’ll at least have time for _that_ , in the hotel room.” Curt’s head suddenly snapped up. "Oh! That reminds me! The hotel room!”

Owen looked confused. “What about it?”

“Do you think we’ll be able to see the Eiffel tower from our room?” Owen thought Curt sounded almost childishly eager at the prospect. 

“I think it’d be more difficult to book a room where we _couldn’t_ see it.”

“Well, see? At least we’ll have a nice view.”

Owen relaxed a bit, soothed by Curt’s hopefulness and letting himself lean into the romance of it. “Waking up next to you already gives me the best view possible.”

Curt gave an exaggerated gasp and a loving smile. “Owen Carvour you absolute heartbreaker! Save the sweet talk for when we’re actually in the city.”

_So much for sweet talk._

“You shouldn’t have to take responsibility for the agencies' incompetence.” Owen huffed, bringing Curt out his moment of reminiscing and back to the present. 

“ _You_ should get over it. Sometimes missions go bad. As far as I’m concerned, this was a win.”

“How can you be so optimistic?”

“How _you_ be such a cynic?”

“Forgive me for being a little cynical when you almost get killed!”

Curt squinted, annoyed. “I can handle myself.”

“Well, if you can handle yourself, I suppose you can _handle_ your own wound.” Owen countered sarcastically.

“Maybe I will!” Curt’s voice raised in volume.

Owen scoffed. “I’d like to see that. You’d be unconscious from fear before you’d even gotten as far as disinfecting it.”

“Well if looking out for me gets you so upset then I won’t give you another thing to worry about!”

“You know that’s not--”

The conversation was cut short by the driver awkwardly clearing his throat and bringing the car to a stop. “You’re, uh, you’re here.” he stuttered, clearly uncomfortable at being in such a confined space with two superior agents having a spat.

“Thank you.” Curt said.

“I know.” Owen said at the same time.

They shot each other a look.

Owen turned to reach for the car door, before noticing that they still hadn’t separated their hands. He pulled his hand free and exited the vehicle, before stepping back and holding out an arm as an offer to Curt.

Curt rejected the offer with a dismissive wave of his hand, shifting himself out of the car as well. However, the second Curt took his first stumbling step, he found his legs more wobbly than anticipated and almost fell completely, were it not for Owen’s arms shooting out and wrapping around him. 

“Alright, I’ve got you.”

Curt huffed, but nonetheless leaned his weight on Owen, out of necessity. He threw one last nod at the driver before entering the hotel with Owen, who had already started speaking again.

“You know I care about you. You know that. I just feel like sometimes you have too much blind faith in your agency.”

“I don’t--” another bad step, another groan, “I don’t have blind faith. I have trust.”

“In this business, trust gets you killed.” Owen remarked grimly. 

Curt raised his eyebrows. “Is that your way of saying you don’t trust _me?_ ”

Owen blinked. “Obviously that’s not--”

“Keep digging, Carvour.” 

They made quite the visual. Two men hobbling through the lobby of the hotel, one acting as the other’s crutch and the other obviously bleeding through his shirt, bickering between themselves in a language none of the other guests spoke. 

They received a lot of strange looks and sideways glances. Owen, evidently fed up with the unwanted attention, snapped a “Occupe-toi de tes oignons!” at one particularly troubled group of passerby, who’d been staring as they approached the elevator. The outburst earned his a light smack in the side from Curt, but the group looked away, so he considered it worth it.

The argument continued when the elevator doors closed. 

Curt let his mind wander, trying to focus on how much he’s just like to get to their room and collapse onto the bed. 

The room had two beds, of course, but they’d only used the one.

Their first night, Curt had fallen asleep literally on top of Owen, having spent a good deal of the night playing with his hair and showering him in compliments, having gotten himself swept up in the glamour of their new location.

He’d cupped Owen’s face in his hands. “You’re pretty.”

Owen chuckled lightly. “I’m pretty?”

“You _are._ ” Curt insisted. “Under all the city lights. Your eyes really sparkle, baby. Like stars.”

Owen leaned his head up and pressed a light kiss to Curt’s lips. “You’re my star.”

“And you say I’m the romantic.” He laid his head down, laughing lightly.

“Goodnight.” Owen said softly.

“Good-- _wait.”_ He cut himself off, “Let me try something.”

(On the plane, Owen had unceremoniously dropped a French-English pocket dictionary in Curt’s lap with a pointed “Study up. You have all flight.”)

Curt took a deep breath and tried to remember the words. “Bonne nuit, mon amour.” He grinned. “How was that?”

Owen resisted the urge to correct his pronunciation. “Perfect, darling. It was perfect.”

Curt doubted tonight would be as romantic, but he was still eager to get back to the room, if for no other reason than to finally be able to lie down. Apparently he’d be working on his own wound tonight too, _icing on the cake_ , so he was, not quite eager, but hasty, to get started on that too.

Owen spoke up again, as they stepped out of the elevator. “Look. Seeing you like that today...it terrified me.”

_“_ Yeah? How do you think _I_ felt?!” Curt barked back.

That shut Owen up for a good second.

“Fair point.” he yielded, reluctantly. “But-”

They were at the door of their room now.

“But _what?_ ”

Owen got the door open.

“But I don’t want to lose you!” he confessed, voice almost an exasperated whine.

They entered the room, and the door shut behind them.

The instant the door was closed, Curt mustered all of his strength and pushed Owen up against the nearest wall with both arms, before leaning in with one arm spread across his chest, pinning him flat. 

He stared into Owen’s eyes.

Owen stared back, bracing himself for Curt to blow up in his face, ready to have his missteps counted against him and read out.

And Curt considered it. 

He really did.

For just a second.

_“What if I just--”_

But then Owen’s words echoed in his mind. “I don’t want to lose you…it terrified me…” 

Dammit. He was defending him. _Dammit!_

And blame it on the blood loss, or blame it on the memories, or blame it on the city of love itself.

Curt considered telling Owen off.

But that’s not what he did.

“Owen,” he started, before sighing deeply, “I wish I could have you by my side for the rest of my life.”

The fire of Owen’s anger immediately fizzled out. He was truly and utterly caught off guard. He had been prepared to fight back, but now, all he could think to say was: “I want that too.” The reply came out in a rushed breath. “I want to be there to protect you.”

Curt pulled his arm back as a smile broke out on his face. “Hey, I save you just as much as you save me.”

Owen let out a shaky laugh. “Actually tonight makes it three to four. But who’s counting?”

The tension in the room eased away, both spies laughing at the comment. It was as if the whole world exhaled a breath it'd been holding for too long.

Curt lingered in the moment for a short while, enjoying the relief, before trying to sober up and speak again.

“I don’t want to fight with you.” Curt said seriously. “I don’t like it.”

Owen sighed, feeling guilt creeping at him. “I don’t like it either." he agreed. "I’m sorry for getting short with you today. Tensions ran high, but that’s no excuse.”

He stepped fully into the room now, and Curt let him.

“Let me get the first aid kit.”

Curt crossed his arms, before speaking almost teasingly. “I thought you were just going to have me patch myself up on my own.”

“Nonsense.” Owen went into the bathroom to retrieve the kit. “Take your shirt off and try to not panic about the blood. I’ll be right out.”

He was, as promised, right out, kit in hand.

Curt was already stripped, and seated on the edge on the bed they’d shared, and Owen knelt before him to examine the wound.

“You’re lucky. It’s not too deep.” he tilted his head to get a better look at it. “We probably don’t even have to close it.”

“Lucky me.” Curt deadpanned, trying very hard not to look at the blood and stress himself out.

“I really only have to clean and dress it.” Owen continued. “Bandages too, of course.” He hesitated before pressing the antibiotic down on the skin. “This might sting.”

“Then distract me.” Curt suggested. “Speak a little French for me, huh? Say something romantic.”

Owen went to work cleaning the wound as Curt hissed at the contact. “Laissez-moi me concentrer sur votre blessure et après cela, je serai aussi romantique que vous le souhaitez.” he muttered.

“Again. No clue what you just said. But I’m sure it was beautiful.” Curt leaned himself forward a little, ignoring the strain on his injury to kiss the top of Owen’s head. 

“There.” Owen said, finishing cleaning the wound. 

Just the dressing and gauze was left, which he made quick work of, pressing a kiss of his own to the bandage when it was finally in place.

When it was finished, Curt immediately fell backwards onto the bed, relieved. 

Owen climbed up beside him and laid down as well. “I’m sorry.” He said again. 

“It’s alright.” Curt replied simply. 

“It’s not.” Owen argued. “It’s not fair of me to get upset at you. You got hurt today. I think, frankly, I wanted to blame anyone but myself.”

“It’s not your fault, Owen.” Curt offered.

“It has to be _someone’s_ fault.” Owen muttered.

“It doesn’t!” Curt countered. “Sometimes things just… happen. And It’s no one’s fault. We both made it out alive. That’s what matters.”

Owen took a deep breath and then nodded. “That’s what matters.” he repeated.

“Now can we stop with the pity party? It’s late. I want some sleep.” He rolled over slightly to reach to turn off the lamp before Owen spoke up again, stopping him.

“Wait.”

Curt turned back. “What is it?”

Owen hesitated slightly. “Can I kiss you?”

“I don’t know…” A smirk spread across Curt’s lips as he made an exaggerated show of pretending to contemplate the request. “Try asking in French.”

Owen rolled his eyes but asked again, with a soft smile. “Je t'aime tellement. Puis-je t'embrasser s'il vous plait?”

Curt leaned back over, reaching a hand to Owen’s cheek and pulling him close. 

“I thought you’d never ask.”

The kiss was slow and sweet and somehow exactly what both of them needed.

A lover’s kiss indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
> “Oui, je parle couramment le français.” = "Yes, I am fluent in French."  
> “Tu as un cœur d’artichaut, mon cher.” = Literally translates to "you have the heart of an artichoke, my dear". It's an idiom that basically means "you're a hopeless romantic"  
> “Occupe-toi de tes oignons!” = "Mind your own business!"  
> “Bonne nuit, mon amour.” = "Goodnight, my love."  
> “Laissez-moi me concentrer sur votre blessure et après cela, je serai aussi romantique que vous le souhaitez.” = "Let me focus on your injury and after that, I'll be as romantic as you want."  
> “Je t'aime tellement. Puis-je t'embrasser s'il vous plait?” = "I love you so much, may I please kiss you?"


End file.
